In Desperate Need Of A Knight In Shining Armour
by queendraconis
Summary: What happens when Sherlock is kidnapped and the effects of his disappearance on both Sherlock and John.


The Art of Danger: In Desperate Need Of A Knight In Shining Armour Saruuh Atkins

**Title: **In Desperate Need Of A Knight In Shining Armour  
**Words:** 4200

**1**

Sherlock Holmes was unlike any other man. His every thought was calculated, and his every action meticulous. He could dissect anyone's actions, motives, or plans to a minute degree. That is, anyone except James Moriarty.  
For the past week Sherlock had been working on a case with Lestrade. Well, it would be more accurate to say that Sherlock had been telling Lestrade what to do and mocking his lack of observation. A bride had gone missing on the day of her wedding and Lestrade was convinced that the groom had kidnapped her, and was either holding her against her will or had murdered her. He had, however, no evidence to suggest this, and no proof to confirm it, so he had turned to Sherlock for assistance. Who had, of course, rubbished his theory and shown him what he should have seen. Sherlock had interviewed the groom and the other people present at the wedding and had come to the conclusion that a third party had been involved, and that they had kidnapped the woman. He suspected it was a male, and that he was a previous suitor or even husband of the bride that had found out about her current wedding, and had returned to reclaim what had previously been his. Or that he had propositioned her, had been refused, and had murdered her in fury.

He had been wrong.

Sherlock was close to solving the case when he had caught the trail of a possible suspect. He suspected it would lead him to a distant house in the country where the woman would be being held. Little did he know it would result in him being held against his own will.  
He found the building easily. It wasn't, however, a deserted house as he had thought; it was an abandoned mill building in the middle of a derelict industrial estate. As he entered the building he was fully prepared for what might occur within. He slid his hand into his pocket and laid it upon the gun he had borrowed from John specifically for the occasion.  
As he entered into an empty room, darkened by boarded windows and dusty from lack of use, Sherlock thought to himself that it couldn't have been used for over 10 years. And given its isolated location he thought it would be the ideal setting for a criminal to go about his business unnoticed and undisturbed.  
The silence put Sherlock on edge. He was used to filling it up with his violin, or ignoring it altogether by reading or talking to John or Mrs Hudson. This silence was charged by an atmosphere of expectance and aggression, which Sherlock thought his mind had created because he was anticipating an attack. It was on this thought the he was focusing when he felt an odd stabbing pain in his left arm, and he had barely turned to look at the arm in question when he started feeling drowsy and a queer feeling came over him. His eyes were having difficulty keeping themselves open, but he managed to ascertain the image of a tranquiliser dart stabbed in his upper arm before he collapsed on the floor and blacked out.

**2**

John Watson was seated on the sofa in his flat watching as he liked to put it 'crappy bullshit on TV' when his phone rang. The loud, trill sound of it making him jump in his seat, before he reached over and pressed accept.  
"Mycroft" He said, sounding a lot like Sherlock. He had the same tone to his voice that Sherlock did when he spoke to his brother: antipathy, impatience and a little bit of irritation. John however sympathised with Mycroft who, despite the misleading impression he gave, was genuinely concerned for his brother's welfare.  
"Where's Sherlock? He's not answering his phone!" Mycroft said quite impatiently. He was obviously worried about his brother, and that made John anxious. Mycroft knew and saw everything, if he was worried about Sherlock, he must have somehow dropped off the radar.  
"He's not here. He's out on a case. Probably chasing up another bloody murderer!"  
"And you're not with him? How peculiar. Did he tell you where he was going?"  
"No, he just walked off like he always does"  
"Hmm. I've traced him as far as Reading. He took the train from London. I saw him leave the station, but he got in a taxi and I've lost all trace of him. I'm really quite anxious. But if you phoned him, John I'm sure that he would answer the call and tell you where he is."  
"I doubt that" John laughed "He can be really bloody ignorant when he wants to be! But if it makes you feel better then I'll ring him"  
"Thank you, John. You have always been most helpful" And with that he put the phone down

Mycroft's calls always left John with the feeling of impending doom, or something of the sort, and he didn't like to ignore Mycroft's suggestions. They always turned out to be helpful; Mycroft was always right. He didn't quite know why, but he found himself scrolling through his contact list for Sherlock and pressing call.

**3**

"Ohh. Good!" Said a voice in the darkness. A voice distinctly recognisable to Sherlock, one he would be able to place in a room full of loud voices. "Your boyfriend's calling" Said the voice "Do you think we should pick up? We could get him to join our little rendezvous. It would be much more fun having him in the room."  
"Don't you dare" Sherlock spat into the darkness. He hated having one of his senses hindered, especially his sight. He wanted to look Moriarty in the eye. Of course, Sherlock also hated feeling of being helpless and tied up, as he was, to a wooden chair in the centre of a disused room.  
"Of course if I'd have wanted him here, he'd be here right now. It could still be arranged if you'd like"  
"I think I'll have to decline that offer, thank you very much"  
"Have it your way." Moriarty replied. "Did you miss me?"  
"Very much so" Sherlock's voice was laced with sarcasm and disgust. "I thought you would have called by now" A light in the centre of the room flickered and a very dim light shone upon where Moriarty was stood.

"Oh, I am sorry. But I've been a very busy boy, Sherlock. Places to go, people to kill. You know, the usual"  
"Forgive me if I don't quite empathize"  
"Hmm." After a moment of irritable silence Moriarty spoke. "Don't you wanna know how I did it? How I led the infamous Sherlock Holmes to his death, with him so completely unaware of what was happening. You should have seen your face when the tranquilizer shot you. Like a rabbit caught in headlights. I think I'll cherish that moment for the rest of my life." After a long minutes silence he spoke again. "You're unusually quiet tonight Sherlock. Have I scared you?" He said in a patronising tone  
"Afraid not. I'm simply choosing to pay no attention to your childish antics or your overdramatic speeches"  
"Oh, well that is a letdown. You always disappoint me."  
"Is that so?"

The charged conversation was interrupted by Sherlock's phone ringing. Moriarty was highly irritated, as he was about to launch into one of his "overdramatic speeches". He knew he was overdramatic of course; it was an aspect of his personality that he enjoyed as he felt it made him appear sinister and omnipotent to his 'associates', although to him they held a distinct resemblance to pawns in a chess game.

"Who's Mycroft?" Moriarty said in a disgusted tone  
"Surely you know the answer to that" Sherlock replied sarcastically  
"No. That's why I asked you. I warn you I'm not a patient man, Sherlock"  
"Your ignorance of general knowledge is alarming. I assumed everyone knew of Mycroft's relation to me"  
Moriarty simply replied with a disgruntled moan  
"Mycroft is my brother." Sherlock said, quite smug and a great deal amused

"Mycroft!" said Moriarty enthusiastically answering the phone. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of speaking to the brother of the infamous Sherlock Holmes before"  
"Don't be absurd. You didn't know I was Sherlock's brother beforehand. He just made you aware of the fact"  
"Well I can see you share his ability to irritate. Do you want to talk to him?"  
"And sacrifice our intriguing conversation? I think not. I assume my brother is quite well?"  
"He is alive"  
"Good. Well. That's a start. May I ask what you intend to do with him"  
"You may ask. But I'm afraid I won't answer you"  
"In that case you leave me no further option. I shall have to stop you myself. I am quite aware of your capabilities Moriarty, which gives me the advantage. As to you, I am an unknown quantity"

Moriarty opened his mouth as if to reply but the dial tone put an end to any opportunities of further conversation. He didn't know who he despised more; Sherlock or his unbelievable brother.  
"Your brother has quite sealed the deal, Sherlock. You can't continue to exist; I'll have to end you. Much like I'll end your brother. There can't be one of you in the world, let alone two."  
"I'd like to see you try to kill my brother. I'm sure it would be an interesting experience for you"  
"Oh, but I'm afraid you won't get to see. You'll be dead by the time he arrives. Now let's not waste time, you know how impatient I get. Be a good boy and Shut Up!" He said as he drew a semi-automatic from his inside jacket pocket. "You know, Westwood is a very practical designer. The spacious inside jackets help me conceal my weapons. But that's enough idle chit chat. Although come to think of it, it's been lacking the chat. I'm afraid I may have terrified you into silence"

Sherlock just gave him a blank hateful look, while his eyes showed determination, as if he was desperately but thoroughly trying to find a way out of the situation, or at least a way to postpone it.

A man in a shabby suit burst through a door at the back of the room.  
"It's Jack, sir. He's dead. I just found him at the back there, his blood all over the ground. You'll have to move him, sir." Moriarty looked at the young boy for quite some time, presumably weighing up killing him for his interruption with letting him live for his convenience and use as a slave. After a moment's deliberation, and his uses obviously weighing over his carelessness, Moriarty walked out of the door, the light flickering off as he went. Sherlock was left completely alone in absolute darkness

**4**

By this point John was panicking; running around the flat trying to get through to Sherlock. A minute ago a rather monotone voice had told him the line was engaged, and now the same voice said it was unavailable. Without Mycroft's call John was already slightly worried, but now he was overly anxious; pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace trying to resolve on a plan of action. He knew that Sherlock could have just gone about his business on his own without telling anybody like he sometimes did, but if Mycroft was unable to find him... He had to do something.  
Within 20 minutes he was on a train to Reading. He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He'd looked into Reading on his laptop before he left and as far as he was concerned it was just a dull industrial city that occasionally attracted overly drunk teenagers to stagger around a music festival.  
It was nearing the end of his journey when his mind went into overdrive. Where could he start? Sherlock was a man of infinite skill, how on earth was he supposed to find him if he didn't want to be found? What would he do if he found Sherlock? Accost him like a small child? Explain that he was scared for his wellbeing? Admit that he cared an awful lot for him? He wasn't even sure why he cared for him. Of course he was his friend, flatmate, and colleague, but he had had friends before and he would never have felt this scared if they went missing for half a day or so. Maybe it was because, despite all his bravado and the egotistical show he put on, Sherlock, when in the comforts of his own home, reminded John of a child. More than often John thought Sherlock looked lost, and sometimes when his mask slipped he thought he even saw him helpless and vulnerable. He decided it was this vulnerability under Sherlock's calculated exterior that had him flying across the country to an unknown destination to face god knows what, and god knows who.  
He tried to think it through logically, like Sherlock would do. But where on earth would Sherlock find trouble in an industrial city? A tiny flicker of a thought had just occurred to John. If the city had a vast amount of space for industry based companies, and because of the recent closure of businesses and corporations, there could be areas of Reading that would be empty and open to anyone. He decided that this would be his best bet to look for Sherlock. But how in the world was he supposed to single out one area in so big a city?

When he left the train there were a number of taxis parked along the curb of the station entrance. John decided that if he needed local knowledge he would have to ask one of the taxi drivers. He swallowed back the bile that rose in his mouth at the thought of his last encounter with a cabbie and just how close Sherlock had come to death that time. He would not let it happen again. Even if there were the tiniest chance that Sherlock needed his help, he would be there to provide it. Slipping his hand into his pocket so that it was within close range of his revolver, should he need it, he approached the closest taxi. He was a young man, in his mid twenties, thought John. He appeared to be a presentable and friendly person judging by the carefree smile that lingered across his face. John suposed that taxi driving, in this case, had been an inherited occupation.  
"Excuse Me" John said to the unlikely driver "This is gonna sound really weird, but are there any disused industrial parks anywhere near here?" He asked a puzzled looking man.  
"Err yeah. There's one about ten minutes away. Company shut down years ago and no one's ever been in it since. All dirty and rusty it is. I can take you if you want?" He asked sounding confused and looking like he questioned John's mental stability.  
"Thanks. Can you make it quick, please? I'm sort of in a rush"

**5**

As Sherlock sat in the dark all manner of things crossed his mind. He wondered how his death might affect his brother. Although they argued over petty trifles and acted like they despised each other, they really did care for one another. Sherlock tried to imagine his life without his brother and the affects it would have on him. He decided that in the short term there would be nobody of supreme intelligence to have conversations or arguments with. There would be nobody he could turn to if he ever needed a problem taken care of Mycroft's way. But in the long term he thought it would affect him quite profoundly, and that he would grieve for his brother for a very long period of time and miss him quite deeply. He dismissed this thought immediately, because he did not have to worry about this. Although he supposed his death would have similar affects on Mycroft.  
He spent an awful lot of time thinking about John. He wondered how he would cope without him, without the excitement he provided, without the amusement. But he knew it was more than that. In some way, alien as it were to Sherlock, their lives seemed to have been connected: from the various near meetings, to the mutual friend that brought them together. The mutual friend that brought his John to him thought Sherlock. Because that was the way Sherlock saw John: as his. Not in a possessive or objective way, but in the way that he wished he could take him out of the world and have him solely for himself, without fear of him being drawn away by a girlfriend, or even worse, by a wife. He wasn't sure why that bugged him. But that wasn't quite the word, because when he really thought about it, the thought of John leaving upset him, and more than once he had been nearly brought to tears whilst thinking the matter over. He was unsure why John leaving affected him so badly, when he had coped perfectly well before John had entered his life. He thought about the way John made him feel, the way he made him laugh like nobody has ever done before, and the way he looks at him like he's just another human being. Not like every other person that either looks at him with disgusting awe, or just with plain disgust. When he was with John, he realised that for the first time in his life he actually felt like a human being. And he wondered what power John had to make him feel in such a way.  
The barely audible click of the door opening declared Moriarty's re-entrance. A chill shot through Sherlock's body, and he wasn't sure whether he was scared for his life, or whether he was afraid to be without his friend.  
"Sorry for the delay" Moriarty said as casually as if he had turned up late for a business meeting. "And now it's time to die" He said pulling a gun from his jacket pocket

Moriarty had always had one downfall; he was too theatrical and he loved to put on a show. By flouncing around with his melodramatic monologues and his theatrical camisadoes he was rather showing his own weakness. Moriarty loved to draw things out, to make them as painful as possible, and as entertaining as possible to him. Moriarty could have simply killed Sherlock instead of tranquilising him, but his passion for performance led him to disregard everything else.  
As he walked towards Sherlock, slowly, deliberately, trying to invoke fear, he got a thrill from the theatrical nature of it. He paused about half a metre from Sherlock and raised his gun, painfully slowly, so that it was level with his head. As he clicked the barrel into place, the anticipation almost killing him, he looked Sherlock in the eye and whispered "I said I would burn your heart. And I have. John is dead. And so will you be." He held his finger on the trigger with absolute precision, staring straight at Sherlock's now closed eyes.

His whole body shook as the shot was fired.

**6**

They say that in your final moments your whole life flashes before your eyes. But Sherlock saw only one thing: his memories with John. First he saw the day they met, when Sherlock had been in complete awe of John. It wasn't just the way he acted towards him; like he was any other person, but it was the way he laid himself bare in one simple gesture. By giving Sherlock his phone John had done more for him than anyone had ever done before. Except of course for Mycroft, but he excepted that as he was family, and Sherlock had observed it was the norm for family members to give each other things. John, however, was of no relation to him, so had no reason for such a display of generosity.  
As well as this his actions suggested that he actually cared about Sherlock, something Sherlock himself could not fathom. Sherlock remembered feeling astounded when John had shot the cab driver because John had not been threatened by him, and was in no immediate danger. And yet he still sacrificed the man's life for Sherlock's. This suggested that he viewed Sherlock as a higher priority than various other people. The thought perplexed and intrigued Sherlock.  
It was this thought that Sherlock had committed to have as his last. It was Moriarty firing the gun, so he imagined it would be very quick; his patience would wear thin. His desire to end another life would mean that it would be over in the blink of an eye.  
When the echo of the shot rung throughout Sherlock's ears he was initially confused as to why he had not felt the impact of the bullet or the pain of it ripping through him. He concluded that it must have been a very swift bullet and that he was now in fact dead. He noted that he didn't feel any different and his hearing was still functioning as he could hear a strange struggling sound in the distance. He assumed that it took some time for his mind to completely stop processing what was happening around him. He was amazed when he was able to open his eyes, even though all he could see was blackness. This confirmed his assumption. He was dead.

Again he was wrong.

The lights above blinked on suddenly, the light blazing into Sherlock's eyeballs causing him to recoil in pain and instinctively close them again. As he did so he heard a series of hurried footsteps.

"Sherlock" A voice whispered frantically "Sherlock he's gone. Moriarty is dead"

A confounded Sherlock opened his eyes to find his John staring at him. He watched as he took out a Swiss army knife and started cutting away the ropes that bound him to the chair. He was paralyzed. He couldn't speak or move, he could barely twitch his fingers. He wasn't sure whether it was relief, disbelief, or fear that held him where he was. All he knew was that he was dead, or that he had transported to some kind of afterlife. He shut his eyes in disgust; the idea of the afterlife was utterly absurd to Sherlock. It never occurred to him that he was still alive. He was positive that he had been shot; he had heard the gun fire, he heard its impact with his body (despite the fact he didn't feel it).  
With this resolution fixed in his mind he couldn't understand why he could feel John's hand on his shoulder.  
"Sherlock?" He said again. Worry and fear colouring his tone. Again Sherlock thought he could feel the pressure of John's hand, this time on his face. "Sherlock, can you hear me? Open your eyes". Sherlock thought he heard him mutter 'For God's sake open your eyes' under his breath. He did what John told him and was again blinded by the fluorescent lights overhead.  
"Sherlock. Can you remember where you are? Do you feel any dizziness, nausea, anything?" He said, staring into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock felt as if he was locked to the chair. His hands still behind his back; he couldn't move any part of his body. He tried to force his mind to process properly; to free his mouth at least. He needed to speak to John. He needed to tell him he was okay. He focused on bringing his breathing back to a normal rate, and he found as he did so he regained more control of himself. Finally he could move his hands, he could breathe using his mouth, he could speak.  
"John" He coughed.  
"Oh thank god. Are you alright?"  
"No" Sherlock laughed weakly "I'm cold"  
John laughed, and put his arms around Sherlock's frail body  
"Fuck! You're freezing" he said, holding him closer. He wasn't sure why, but he felt the need to hold Sherlock's body against him, to feel him there and know he was safe, and a part of him needed to protect him. Sherlock seemed to be more at ease when he was close to John, his breathing slowed from a mild hyperventilation to a regular pace, and his muscles relaxed a little.  
"Thank you" Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper  
"For what?"  
"For saving me. I, I really needed someone. I needed you."  
John laughed, a surprised, happy sound. "What are you saying? That I'm you're knight in shining armour?" He joked.  
"Yes. I guess you're exactly that"  
John laughed again and brought one of his hands up to rest on Sherlock's face. The other he held tightly around his waist, supporting him. Sherlock, in a gesture that totally shocked John, rested his head against John's chest, curling himself into his body. John gently run his fingers through Sherlock's hair, and wondered if they should be moving some time soon. Moriarty would no doubt have a number of men working for him, any of which could return here at any time.  
"Home?" John asked.  
"Home" Sherlock said in agreement, and John thought he heard a slight smile in his voice.


End file.
